


The Exhortation of St. Paul

by dracofiend



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracofiend/pseuds/dracofiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis and Dr. Hobson gently fall for each other. James watches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Exhortation of St. Paul

**Author's Note:**

> Grateful hugs to witch9spring for Britpicking. ♥ This is meant to be a sequel to the last bit of Word and Deed, which I finally eked out after much struggle.

James has no choice—he must watch. He must watch as Lewis looks up, years vanished from his face, little lines vanished, at the sound of Dr Hobson's approaching step at the door. He must listen as she greets him with a friendly "How goes it in the war on crime? Captured the castle yet?"

He returns his eyes to his screen but he can see her smile anyway. It's bright, clear-eyed.

"No," Lewis answers. James doesn't stop typing. "Ask me again tomorrow, though." He squints at the monitor, seeing Lewis' upturned smile instead of _3 pm, attended inquest at High Wycombe Magistrates Court._

"And how fare the fine troops?" Dr Hobson's voice is aimed at him and James looks over. His mouth curves up, a fraction too slowly. "Ah. Morale's low, then. Detective Inspector, I fear the doers of evil may have the advantage, at present. There’s going to a temporary cessation in hostilities so that Robbie and I can get a bite—right?" She glances at Lewis while something in James consciously does not flex his jaw.

"Yes ma’am," Lewis says.

"Why don't you join us?" Dr Hobson asks, leaning against the door frame, over her folded arms.

James tries to inject his expression with as much blandness as he can generate. "Oh, no, thank you—I've got loads to do." He tilts his head at the folders spread across his desk.

She throws a pointed look in Lewis' direction.

"It's ok, James—join us if you like," Lewis says.

The bare beginnings of an ache make their presence known along James' left and right temples—but he looks closely at Lewis and it isn't courtesy on offer.

"I'm not a joiner of things," James answers, smiling.

Lewis raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement; Dr Hobson raises hers in bemusement. For a moment James' face doesn't strain—Lewis remembers. Then Lewis nods to Dr Hobson, saying, "Give us another hour, right? I'll come down to get you."

"Reports of chivalry's death are greatly exaggerated," Dr Hobson responds, flashing Lewis a grin before whisking herself from the door. James returns his fingers to typing, his gaze to the screen, and breathes quietly through the tightness in his chest.

***

James pushes past the swinging door, one hand cupped around the packet of cigarettes in his pocket. It's nippy, a shade more than nippy, he realizes as he leaves the vestibule and pulls out his smoke and his lighter. The frost hits the backs of his hands as he lights up. Sweet nicotine, though, keeps his throat and lungs warm. He exhales, takes another deep pull of his cigarette. Over the edges of his fingertips, he watches a car pull into the car park, at the far end. It's silver, a Vauxhall Insignia. It's got Lewis’ number plates.

James remembers the smoke, and takes a clipped puff. Lewis is searching for parking. He isn't alone. Dr. Hobson sits on his left, peering out the window, helping him to look. James digs his left arm more tightly to his ribs, hunching down into his coat for a moment. Across six rows of cars and the late lunch crowd, James sees Lewis turn into a space almost at the end of a row. His door opens before hers; it hangs outstretched for a long minute. James can't quite see through the rear dash at this angle, and he squints, stretching his neck low and forward, cigarette pressed to flattening between the knuckles of his fingers. They must be talking. They must be cold.

A moment more, and then the top of Lewis' head emerges. His face is smiling. Dr Hobson appears, meeting his gaze across the roof of the car. The sound of their doors slamming shut is distant, almost instantly eclipsed by the sudden there-then-gone chatter of people pushing past the doors behind James. James breathes in deeply, hollowing his cheeks. Dr Hobson bobs alongside Lewis, her mouth moving with alacrity, now wide, now narrow, now round, to make a point. She carries a large brown paper bag, and the rapidly diminishing distance between them permits James to note the patches of grease darkening the bottom.

Fish and chips, James thinks. Lewis' head is bent to Dr. Hobson; his hands are hidden in the front pockets of his North Face jacket but the crooks of his elbows gesture, and he doesn't see James, loitering by the front doors of the station. James chucks the cigarette, half-smoked, to the concrete anyway, and grinds it out. He draws in a long and audible breath through his nose. The air is icy, without the smoke. Smoking can cause a slow and painful death, says the packet. James leans to pick up the black-tipped stub. He reckons it's true.

***

It's the end of the week and James is exhausted. He's been keeping long hours, over easy cases and hard ones, with his guitar and his iPod and too many coffees. He's working on a new piece for the band -it's got a tricky bridge and it's not perfect yet in his hands. He trips up still on measure twenty-three when his mind drifts and there's caffeine and fatigue fighting him in his fingers, and that won't be good enough when he's up on stage, being blinded by lights and overheated by the ventilation system that all pre-war churches seem to have in common, no matter which war. He saves the report on his screen and closes it, watching the clock at the corner of his monitor tick to 7:06 before it goes blue. _Shutting down..._ it blinks. James pushes his chair back and gets to his feet.

"Have a nice weekend," he says to Lewis, who remains seated, peering closely at his screen.

Lewis looks up. "Oh." His eyes shift to the clock on the wall by the door. He sits up, away from the computer. "I'm famished." Lewis stretches as James shoulders his jacket on. "Feel up to Indian with your old boss?"

James flips the collar of his jacket the right way, surprised. "What about Dr Hobson?"

Lewis' eyebrows rise. "What about her?"

"Well I thought the two of you have a standing date on Fridays." James' face is neutral; he goes for his coat.

"Contrary to popular belief, Laura and I aren't joined at the hip," Lewis answers, with a definite note in his voice.

James watches Lewis hunch toward his screen as he stands, and click on the mouse. "Trouble in paradise?"

Lewis straightens and turns admonishing eyes on James. He moves to the door for his North Face. "I wouldn’t know—but me and Laura are just fine, if that’s what you’re asking."

He goes out the door, pulling the jacket on. James looks after him, then follows, the mild arch of his eyebrows easing away into a small smile.

"Oh good."

Lewis gives him a quelling look. "Where've you been disappearing off to lately, anyway?" They nod simultaneously to a couple of WPCs passing in the corridor.

"I haven't been," James replies, tucking his hands into his coat pockets.

"I've not seen hide nor hair of you for weeks—figured you were on tour with that group of yours."

"I've been in the office every Monday to Friday since..." James pauses, thinking back. "Since the August bank holiday."

Lewis' glance says James' answer isn't acceptable, but Lewis doesn't push. "Ok, where are we going? Taste of India? India Palace?"

James pushes the glass door outward and waits for Lewis to step through. He shrugs. "Thought you preferred the tikka at India Palace?"

"Aye, I do." Lewis looks back as James draws alongside him. "Been so long I'd forgotten."

James just gives Lewis' vaguely probing glance a slight smile.

They're well into their meals (chicken tikka and lamb vindaloo) when Lewis takes up the line of questioning that James will duck and dodge to his dying day. "So," Lewis begins, tearing off a piece of naan, "how're things coming along? Outside of work, I mean."

James cocks his head. His fork pauses in the midst of spearing a piece of lamb, then continues. "Things," James says with emphasis on the nebulous-yet-fraught-term, "are coming along swimmingly." He inserts the lamb into his mouth and chews, curving his mouth into a play-dumb smile.

"Good," Lewis says after a moment. James simply looks back at Lewis' studying gaze, and gives nothing away. "Right," Lewis says, popping another bit of naan. "Are you...seeing anyone?"

At that James' blandness slips. "Right now, I'm seeing you doing a spot-on imitation of a nosey parker," he says wryly. "Sir."

"You remind me of me daughter when she was at university," Lewis mutters, clearly exasperated. "I know it's none of my business—"

"Won't argue that," James cuts in.

"—but you've been, I don't know." A miniscule frown makes itself visible low on Lewis' forehead. "Distracted, maybe."

"Have I been?" James says. He doubts this. If anything, he's been more focused on the job, his vigilance ever sharpening, sharpening until it sickens him, the frightening details he sees in himself and in Lewis and in every witness they interview, as if his observations of Lewis and Dr Hobson can't be turned off and now his eye catches the entire world in far too vivid sweeps of colour and light, illuminating facts that he would rather not know, that he'd rather not be true.

Lewis is quiet, chewing. He swallows as James meets his eye. "Are you thinking of leaving?" Lewis asks lowly. "Got another university don beating down your door wondering what you're doing wasting your brilliant mind on ordinary police work?"

James is caught off-guard—not because Lewis says it with bitterness, because he does not; he says it softly, as if he's expecting James will nod and acknowledge that, yes, his kind have come calling yet again, bearing promises of fellowships and grant money, eager to welcome him back into his long-forsaken fold.

"No," James replies, and though he tries to suppress it his surprise is evident. Lewis' face broadens in immediate relief. James’ heart jumps, weightless for an instant, until Lewis' expression lapses back into a frown. James watches him take another bite, and does the same.

“Well, whatever it is,” Lewis says, “anything I can do to help?”

James’ vindaloo takes a spicy turn; he swallows with difficulty and reaches for his beer.

“It’s nothing,” James answers when he can. He puts on a reassuring expression. “We’re coming out with an album—the band,” he says. “Our first. Going through a few—birthing pains, I suppose you could call them.” He shrugs, trailing his fork through grains of basmati that have been overwhelmed by sauce. He looks up, and his gaze is direct because it’s all true.

Lewis examines him for a moment, then nods. “Ah.”

“It’ll be over soon enough,” James says. Lewis nods again. He seems satisfied. James smiles at him and asks, “How many CDs should I put you down for, sir? It’ll be ready before Christmas. Remember, the gift of music is timeless.”

***

James ends the call and slips his Blackberry back into its pocket. He turns, scanning the riverside for Lewis. Suited SOCOs pick their way through the wooded area; a short distance away, a photographer kneels, adjusting his lens. James is still standing by his car when Perkins comes by with a suit.

“Cheers,” James says, unfolding it. “Has Inspector Lewis arrived yet?”

Perkins shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him—should be here shortly. I heard he stopped off to pick up the doc.”

“All right,” James nods, stepping into the suit. His mind ticks over the facts of the crime (white male, early forties, found about an hour ago by a couple of tourists punting along the river) and over Lewis’ whereabouts (it’s just gone half past one, Lewis had left the office at a quarter to one, James hadn’t seen Dr Hobson or asked any questions). He frowns, forcing himself to consolidate his parallel thoughts into a single track, the only one that matters at this instant (a man lies dead, someone may have killed him), and zips up his suit.

He straightens, taking a deep breath, and looks out toward the river.

Forty yards away, a silver car is slowing to a stop. Inside, Dr Hobson is visible through the windscreen, leaning toward Lewis, talking to him. The jut of her right shoulder, the angle of her body—she’s got a hand on the driver’s knee or thigh. Lewis responds with what appears to be agreement; she leans away, unfastens her safety belt. He takes the keys from the ignition and opens the door.

James begins walking forward as Lewis emerges.

“Sir,” James calls.

“What’ve we got?” Lewis greets him.

“White male, looks to be in his early forties, found dead on the bank just there by punters about an hour ago. Sustained some obvious injuries to the head. Well-dressed, but his clothes are pretty well soaked.”

He delivers it plainly, perfectly, and it’s only when Lewis looks to Dr Hobson and says, with a faint smile, “Aren’t you glad you decided to take me up on lunch after all?” that James is undercut by an abrupt, extraordinary distress.

Dr Hobson returns the remark with a raised brow, then turns to James. “How do you—”

She breaks off unexpectedly, and Lewis and James look at her.

“Laura?” Lewis asks.

Dr Hobson shakes her head. “His clothing’s soaked, you say?” she begins again, facing James. “Sounds like a job for an expert. Lead the way, Sergeant.”

James smiles and nods. He takes them to the body and watches them inspect it; he listens to them confer. At some point his phone rings and he steps outside the tape to take the call. After it’s done, he glances toward the where the body lies, stuffing the latex gloves into a plastic pocket. Lewis is nodding as Dr Hobson explains, or speculates, or tells him she’s going to need to see the post-mortem before she has anything definite. The SOCO suit is ungainly, stifling. It rustles as James shifts, as he inadvertently chews the cuticle of his thumb.

Twenty feet off, Lewis looks back. He stops talking to Dr Hobson, and starts walking over.

***

In a lifetime past, Lewis had asked James if he’d been chucked out of seminary, and James had told Lewis he’d been considered too frivolous for the priesthood. Father Chisholm, James had said, had rebuked him for the architectural wonders that James had rendered in mash atop the fish pie. Of course, the truth behind James’ departure from seminary had come out (James still cringes when he thinks of it, so he doesn’t)—but Father Chisholm’s words to James are unknown to anyone but himself and their speaker. _There are many ways to serve God,_ the priest had said. _Why have you chosen this path?_

At the time, James had briefly thought about acknowledging that the pie construction job did indeed bear some resemblance to a certain tower in Babel and that he would direct his efforts in a more seemly fashion in future, but Father Chisholm’s grave face had kept James silent. Which was a good thing, as the question had turned to be a rhetorical one.

_You have been gifted with many abilities, James, many fine qualities, but using them well requires discipline,_ Father Chisholm had said. _A certain degree of stick-to-itness that, frankly, you have not exhibited thus far._

That had struck the smirk from the inside of James’ mouth. _Abhor that which is evil; cleave to that which is good,_ Father Chisholm had recited in the same sepulchral voice. Then he had recommended a period of reflection on Thomas Aquinas for James, while the others removed the fish pie abomination from the eyes of the Lord.

The entire episode had been rather dreadful. It remains firmly inscribed in James’ memory.

James recalls it now, clearly as the day, as he slides his eyes around the side of his screen, across to where Lewis sits, typing at his measured pace (“I’m only being careful,” he said when James mentioned once that the open college was offering speed-typing). He knows Lewis is meeting Dr Hobson for dinner tonight; he overheard Lewis on his mobile earlier, out in the hall.

Lewis is happy when he’s with Dr Hobson; it’s easy to see. It makes James glad, which is not so easy to see—but James feels it in the quickening of his pulse when Lewis walks in smiling, when Lewis looks at his ringing mobile and mutters, “It’s Laura.”

_Let love be without dissimulation. Abhor that which is evil; cleave to that which is good._ In some things, James’ faith is unshaken. He watches Lewis a moment more, then returns to his work.

***

“You seem pleased, sir.” James says it with a smirk that stands in for a wink and a nudge. His hands are curled closed in his pockets, as they stride from the circle of the Radcliffe camera. “Big weekend?”

Lewis’ near eyebrow arches slightly. _Mind your own affairs,_ it says. “No,” Lewis says. “Nothing special. You?”

“Without a doubt—all the teachers said so,” James answers.

Lewis does the eyeroll and the nod. “What is it you do at the weekends, anyway? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t mind you asking,” James replies. He looks up at the sky and back down again, and says nothing else with a smile. He glances over at Lewis, whose face is wry.

“Ok. You play your guitar, read a couple of 16th century best-sellers, and finish off some paperwork.”

James huffs a closed-mouth laugh. “Not bad.” He leans a little nearer to Lewis. “Sometimes I also manage a bit of rowing.”

“Ah,” Lewis answers. “Bank holidays?”

“Oh, no—bank holiday weekends are full of excitement. The band’s usually booked.” James’ eyebrows tilt up toward each other as he talks. “Lots of people like throwing parties and weddings on bank holiday weekends.”

Lewis nods. “How many are there in the band?”

James pulls in a breath. “About seventeen, give or take.” He watches Lewis’ forehead lift in surprise.

“That many, eh?”

James’ chin swings. “It takes a village.”

“How do you all get about? I thought you had to travel to the places where you play. Must be a dear thing.”

James smiles. “We travel via caravan, and we charge a very reasonable fee. Why do you ask? If you’re interested in a booking—” And then he stops, his brain and his heart suddenly launched to full speed. “If you’re interested in a booking, we do have special offers,” he finishes carefully. “For friends and family.” He dares a half glance at Lewis, and feels his mouth stretch to one side.

Lewis reacts to the movement and meets James’ eye, and James’ expression must be telling, though what it tells, James can’t be sure. Lewis seems to freeze for an instant—then he’s shaking his head.

“Don’t get any fanciful ideas, now,” he says, gruffly dismissive, looking away and back again with wide blue eyes.

“What?” James asks, letting his tone be teasing, letting his chest beat fast.

Lewis doesn’t answer; his eyes flicker over the ground, then over to James.

“What?” James asks again, more insistently. But Lewis only looks at him, walks beside him—something crosses his face and he turns back to the horizon.

“What was it you lot play again? A mixture of jazz and…?” Lewis asks.

“Medieval madrigals.” James supplies. He can’t pull his eyes from Lewis’ profile, the quiet slope of his jaw, the faint shadow beneath his cheek.

“Right. Medieval madrigals.” Lewis makes a noise of amusement. “Only you, James.”

James grins back. “Not true, sir. Sixteen others, as well.”


End file.
